The fat man did not turn a hair. "No, nobody would want to spy on me. Why?"
"I feel jumpy, as though somebody were walking on my grave. I don't know why anybody would be spying on me, but—I'm neither a Lensman nor an esper, but I'd swear that somebody's peeking over my shoulder half the time. I think I'll go over to the Patrol station and borrow one."
"Nerves, my boy, nerves and shock," Graves diagnosed. "Losing an arm would shock hell out of anybody's nervous system, I'd say. Maybe the Phillips treatment—the new one growing on—pulls you out of shape."
"Could be," Cloud assented moodily. His act had been a flop. If Graves knew anything—and he'd be damned if he could see any grounds for such a suspicion—he hadn't given away a thing.
Nevertheless, the Blaster went next to the Patrol office, which was of course completely and permanently shielded. There he borrowed the detector and asked the lieutenant in charge to get a special report from the Patrol upon the alleged gems and what, if anything, it knew about either the cruiser or the pirates. To justify the request he had to explain his suspicions.
After the messages had been sent the young officer drummed thoughtfully upon his desk. "Wish I could do something, Doctor Cloud, but I can't see how I can," he decided finally. "I'll notify Narcotics right away, of course, but without a shred of evidence I can't act, even if they are as big a zwilnik outfit as Wembleson's was, on Bronseca...."
"I know. I'm not accusing them. It may be anything from Vandemar to Andromeda. All firms—all individuals, for that matter—have spy-ray blocks. Call me, will you, when you get that report?"
The call came eventually and the Patrolman was round-eyed as he imparted the information that, as far as anyone could discover, there had been no Lonabarian gems and the rescuing cruiser had not been a Patrol vessel at all. Cloud was not surprised.
"I thought so," he said, flatly. "This is a hell of a thing to say, but it now becomes a virtual certainty—mathematically, the probability approaches absolute certainty as a limit—that this whole fantastic procedure was designed solely to keep me from analyzing and blowing out that vortex. Here's what I'm going to do." Bending over the desk, even in that ultra-shielded office, he whispered busily for minutes.
"But listen, Doctor!" the Patrolman protested. "Wait—let a Lensman do it. Do you realize that if they're clean and if they catch you at it, nothing in the universe can keep you from doing at least ninety days in the clink?"